hot black blood in a cup
something from Mexico
can’t be bothered to read the name
in a language that I don’t know anyway.
Organic thing though
for the Hipsters that don’t come
since its the summer and
all of the longboards are gone
and the box guitars are all tuned down
for the long haul back to Seattle or South Beach
or Oklahoma or Utah or where ever.
I feel poor and humble
on this hot day in May
and I am surrounded by filthy blotched brown tiles
for floors and the tables and chairs remain
like some painted, neckbeard graveyard
from an internet-intertwined sonnet.
sing-songy little thing with perfect little
rhyming devices that make a quilt
on paper, stitched together and the image
always seems just slightly off, slightly shifted in the red.
Where are all those little Ginsbergs
dying in bed sheet burdens and tossing it up
from memories of Everclear in Kool-Aid cups?
Not here — there are no bad noises here
as all the children slumber the summer days asunder
and the thunder only sounds like drum circles
and the hippies did it all before
and the punk-rockers did it all before
and the beats built it from camp fires, cars, cigarettes and mescal
and I only dream of days where I can be it, machine myself into it
like a circuit board smile and digital drug.
These rooms are empty
and these chairs and tables are empty
save for a bored dark-haired woman
twisting her fingers around yarn in the corner.